Not Just Another Love Song
by Gedia Kacela
Summary: (Chapter Three FINALLY Up!) A Nini/NA fic. Love vs. Diamonds- the war rages on as two jaded lovers try to make their stand in the suffocating Underworld.
1. Beauty

Not Just Another Love Song  
  
Disclaimer: Do I really need to say it?  
  
Author's Note: I've been wanting to write a Nini/NA (or Lolo as Rita named him) fic for a loooong time, but never had an idea. Well, I still don't, but here goes anyway. Dedicated to ze loverly Bohemian Storm, my fellow worshipper of Shirtless Argentineans.  
  
***  
  
Chapter One: Beauty  
  
She had never been the beauty of the stage, even before Satine had come. She was never the first one the men's eyes went to. She was, perhaps, the second one they lusted after, but never the first. She was always second fiddle to the star of the stage- the real beauty, no matter how well she danced or flirted or sauntered. She was never the one who men whispered to about her great beauty, about how she was the most beautiful creature they had seen. The only one who had told her that she was beautiful was her mother.   
  
That was, until she met Him. He had changed everything, offered to give her the world, but she had denied herself that privilege. After all, the one rule of the Moulin was to Never. Fall. In. Love. And she was determined to keep that role, to keep her life, to keep her status, even if it was as playing second fiddle to Satine. It was better than living on the streets. Love didn't pay the rent, after all. Diamonds did.  
  
The words Satine sang each night were true. Diamonds were a girl's best friend. They remained even after worldly charms faded away with dreaded age. She wanted to stay young forever, to keep what beauty she possessed.  
  
She wasn't ugly by any means. Men paid good money to spend a night with her- to caress her soft curves, entwine their hands in her dark hair, and kiss her crimson lips. But she never felt truly beautiful until Him.  
  
With Him, she was the first one his eyes rested on, the first thought on his mind when it fantasized, the first one he sought out on the dance floor. With him, she was finally Beautiful. And to think, she tried to throw that away, just because he didn't have money to buy her expensive jewels.  
  
She was a jaded witch, you didn't have to tell her. She knew it. She saw it in the mirror like she saw her tainted past in her dreams. Just by looking into her own brown eyes she saw her darkness, her hatred, saw them as clearly as if her past sins were painted across her face like the rouge she wore each night.  
  
No one saw her pain, not like she could. She was labeled as a common whore, albeit a well-paid one. She was tarnished, used, unwanted for more than one night. She was, like the others, a creature of the underworld. Anymore, she didn't argue with the generalized classification. If the shoe fit, wear it, right? And the shoe fit her perfectly. She was a whore- a whore who had lost her soul along with her virginity, a thousand times over.  
  
She had grown accustomed to the fact that she would never have love. In fact, she had laughed at the very idea of love. It didn't exist in her world of lust and money and whirling can-can skirts. But He had changed all of that, swept in from above and turned her world upside down, frightening the hell out of her but thrilling her, all at the same time.  
  
She would never forget the first time he walked through the doors of the Moulin. There was something about him that instantly drew her attention. It wasn't just that his bronzed skin set him apart from the rest of the pasty-faced old men in the crowd, or that the flash of red on his bandanna caught her eye amidst the black-and-white tuxes usually worn to the Moulin. It was something else, something she still didn't understand.  
  
But whatever it was, it made her miss a step in the dance they were performing and fall drastically behind. Soon all eyes, including the handsome newcomer's, were on her. Thinking quickly, she did half a cartwheel, ending up on her hands with her legs straight up and began walking around on her hands, much to the pleasure of the audience.   
  
"Look!" she heard someone cry out. "Her legs are in the air! Nini Legs-in-the-Air!" The name began to circulate around the room, along with appreciative laughs.  
  
Her cackling laugh bubbled from her lips as she righted herself and caught up with the rest of the dancers. Arabia glared at her. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"  
  
"Makin' myself famous, doll. I just got a nickname. Whadda you got?"  
  
The black girl glanced over at where Harold Zidler stood on the bandstand. He did not look happy. "Well, I don't got Harold mad at me, that's for sure."  
  
Nini ignored the comment, whirling with the steps, her skirts whipping around her long legs. Between spins, she managed to catch another glimpse of him. He was now seated in a booth with that shrunken gnome Toulouse, of all people. Gods, he was devilishly handsome, she thought as she high-kicked. He caught her eye and a smile crept over his bearded face.  
  
She didn't have time to smile back before the music changed and the crowd of men rushed out onto the dance floor to claim their partners. She was too busy trying to avoid being hooked by one of the old geezers to notice that the stranger had left his table. When she looked again, he was gone.  
  
A few minutes later, she paused on the outskirts of the dance floor to catch her breath. Her chest was heaving within the confines of her tight corset from her exertion. "Damn these costumes," she muttered.  
  
An answer to her complaint caught her off-guard. "I personally find them quite alluring." The words were thickly coated with a lusty Spanish accent and rolled though the air like silk. She turned to find herself face-to-face with the handsome stranger she had seen earlier. His dark eyes were like melted chocolate, piecing her defenses and seeing beneath the layers of makeup, almost to her rotted soul. His lightly callused fingers touched her alabaster skin, caressing her in a way that almost caused her to shiver. His touch was like electricity.  
  
"Oui?" she purred, switching into her seductive mode and working to not let her desires get the best of her.  
  
"Si, mi hermosa."  
  
She cocked her head to the side, listening to the strange words. "What does that mean?"  
  
A tantalizing smile lit up his face. "I said, 'yes, my beauty.'" He turned away, and for a moment she thought that he was leaving to find a dance partner, but he glanced back over his shoulder as the smile stretched further. He offered his hand. "Shall we dance?"  
  
She accepted, placing her pale hand within his tanned one. His fingers enveloped her tiny ones as he led her out on the floor. Music and dancers swirled around them, but she could only think of one thing.  
  
He had called her Beauty.  
  
END CHAPTER ONE 


	2. The Beast

Chapter Two: The Beast  
  
Author's Note: I adore NA... I really do. Why can't he be REAL?! *wants a Narcoleptic Shirtless Argentinean of her very own* This ended up turning into something relating to my fic It Always Ends Bad, though that was not my intention.  
  
***  
  
For so long, he had been alone. For so long, all he had known was the darkness and pain of his narcolepsy. No one knew that much about the disease, or how to treat it. For so long, he denied his sickness, denied his past, denied even his own existence for a time.  
  
For so long, he was a soulless wanderer. He ran at first, stopping only to satisfy the most intense needs of food and rest. He was hindered only by the frequent blackouts that left him lying prone on the sides of roads. Otherwise, he ran.  
  
But soon, he grew weary of the running, and slowed into a never-ending walk. He trod through countless cities and villages, his coat drawn up around his thick, unkempt beard. Soon, he found that he didn't need as much food as he thought. He ceased stopping for rest. When the weariness overwhelmed him, he just fell, let it take him over. Each time, he prayed for death. Because in death, he could be reunited with her. And that was the one thing in life that he craved. To see her again.  
  
When Toulouse found him, he was nothing more than an animal. A beast. But the diminutive artist had seen past that, though he didn't really know how. He had thought that no one could care about him anymore, after the things he had done. Of course, in France, no one knew him. And he made damn sure that it stayed that way.  
  
He had given up his name before he had even left Argentina. That was a past he wanted to forget. But though he had left his name behind, he could not leave his memories. They haunted him like the ghosts of his past, screaming at him in his narcoleptic delusions, tearing at his mind until he was nearly insane.  
  
But the Absinthe helped with the memories. Toulouse also taught him that- showed him the seductive power of the Green Fairy, her way of drowning all your tainted fears with the fiery green liquid. He craved Absinthe the way some men craved the women of the Moulin Rouge.  
  
The Moulin Rouge. It brought back memories just to gaze out the studio window at the whorehouse below. He would turn away with a rough growl and throw back another glass of Absinthe. Toulouse, Satie, and the Doctor went there almost nightly, but he had not yet been able to bring himself to enter the place. How could he? He had struggled through so many nights trying to forget about places such as the Moulin Rouge, and now the windmills of the nightclub spun tauntingly beneath his very window.  
  
He spat angrily at the red windmill then inhaled deeply, almost violently, on a cheap cigarette that he clutched like a lifeline in his right hand. "Damn the whole goddamned place."  
  
Toulouse, who was putting on his tattered hat to go once again to the nightclub, paused to look at him. "Why don't you come with us, fwend?"  
  
"To that hellhole?"  
  
He nodded firmly. "Yeth, to that hewwhow."  
  
Satie peeked in the doorway, adding nervously. "It's not as bad as you might think, truly."  
  
For several long moments, the Argentinean sat silently, smoking and attempting to stare down the Moulin in some futile contest of wills. Failing, he stood up, tossing the cigarette out the window. "Well, what does one wear to such a place?"   
  
Then, he promptly passed out.  
  
***  
  
The Argentinean followed Toulouse and the others into the Moulin Rouge. The whirl of color, roar of music, and thick aroma of smoke and liquor nearly prevented him from entering into his dark maze of memories. Even so, he could still hear the Spanish music beat into his brain and could almost feel her in his arms again.  
  
But then, he saw her. The most beautiful creature he had laid eyes on since... her. Her dark tresses were pulled up into an elaborate chignon, fastened with diamond-studded combs. For a moment, he imagined her dark hair spread out like a raven's extended feathers on a white pillow, her eyes closed in passion. Her pale skin was in sharp contrast with her snug black dress. As he watched her, she fell behind the other dancers and flipped until she was walking on her hands.  
  
His eyes immediately went to her lean, muscular legs, enclosed in black fishnet stockings. He longed to reach out and touch those legs, to wrap them about his waist and feel the strength in them as they clung to him.  
  
No matter how he tried, he couldn't stop staring at her. Toulouse was speaking to him, but all he could do was nod, hardly hearing the words. As soon as the music changed, the Moulin's patrons began to make their way out onto the floor, claiming dance partners. He slipped away from the booth, snaking his way across the jammed dance floor to where she stood, catching her breath.  
  
Before he knew it, he had her by the hand, leading her to a (relatively) quiet corner of the room and pulled her close to him. She pressed up against him, her arms wrapped around his neck and her long fingers playing with his dark hair. "What is your name?"  
  
"What do you want to call me, love?"  
  
"I want you to tell me your name." His sultry voice was stern, almost startling her.  
  
She paused, regarding him. "My name's Ninianna, but call me Nini. Everyone else does." She traced his jawbone with a finger, her tone husky. "What's yours?" He ignored the question, leaning down to kiss her. She pulled away. "Not so fast. No kisses till ya pay."  
  
"Ah. Comprendo."  
  
"What?"  
  
"I understand," he translated. "Forgive me, I'm still used to speaking in my language."  
  
"Don't worry about it." The music ended abruptly, a lone violin crying out through the smoky atmosphere. Her eyes flashed in excitement and she grasped his arm. "Ya tango?"  
  
He let go of her as if the touch of her skin burned him. His eyes had a wild, scared look to them, like a deer. "No," he gasped. "No!" That was when she noticed that his hands were shaking.   
  
"Whoa, sorry."   
  
She turned to leave him, but his voice called after her. "Por favor, mi hermosa..."  
  
Beauty.  
  
She bit her lip. What the hell was she doing, falling for some guy just cause he called her Beauty? God help her if she was getting soft. But she turned anyway. "Ya wanna get outta here?" He nodded slowly. Reaching out her hand, she whispered. "Come on."  
  
Like a child, he took the proffered hand and she led him out of the dance hall and up the stairs.  
  
END CHAPTER TWO 


	3. The Horizontal Tango

Chapter Three: The Horizontal Tango  
  
Author's Note: Sorry this has been so long in coming. My muse has been obsessed with Severus Snape for the past few months- still is, actually, but I forced her to write MR again.  
  
So here's chapter three. A bit short, but poignant.  
  
***  
  
Her kisses were like molten stone bubbling hotly against his skin. He pawed at her, wanting to touch every inch of her smooth alabaster skin and waving ebony hair. "Mi hermosa," he breathed into her mouth, and she shuddered involuntarily, pressing harder against him.  
  
"Mmm..." she moaned. "The bed..."  
  
He responded immediately, lifting her lightly into his arms and crossing the distance to the bed in a few long strides. Laying her down gently, he pressed another kiss to her soft lips before pulling away to quickly finish the task of removing his shirt. She slid out of her dress and stockings and began to work on her corset.  
  
But he couldn't wait. He descended on her, pressing her back into the mattress and wrapping his strong, muscled arms around her. She wrapped her legs around his waist and kissed him, her hands fluttering down to his waist to undo the fastenings on his trousers. "Com'on, 'andsome."  
  
He needed no further urging. He pressed her further into the pillows and she moaned with his steady movements, a rhythm that he kept just within the bounds of his control. He forced himself to remain in control of himself. The last time he had lost control he had allowed himself to fall in love.  
  
And that was something he would never do again. Never.  
  
He would pay for this love with money, not the pieces of his shattered heart.  
  
He would not make the same mistake twice. Never again.  
  
They fell asleep after hours of lovemaking, still entangled in each other and too exhausted to move. Her thin arm resting lightly across his broad chest, and she could feel the quickened beating of his heart pulse against her sweaty skin. His hand was tangled in her hair, holding her close.  
  
It was a gesture that some might consider almost romantic. Almost. But she was still just a whore after all. And men did not fall in love with prostitutes, just as they did not fall in love with their customers. No matter how incredible they looked without their shirt, or how good they were in bed.  
  
It was simply something that was not done.  
  
And she certainly was not going to allow herself to make that fatal mistake. The minute you fell in love, your life was basically over. Your career certainly was, and once you had no job, the guy would dump you on the streets. And then you were back where you started.  
  
There was no way in hell Nini was going back to that. She'd rather slit her throat right here and now than do that.  
  
Still, as she drifted off to sleep, she couldn't help but think how nice it would be to not wake up in the arms of a stranger, for a change.  
  
But to do that would mean that there would be no money by the bedside when she woke. And from where she lay, she could see the crumpled bills on the nightstand. That sight assured that she would never see him again.  
  
Funny how that fact made her hate money.  
  
Perhaps, she thought sleepily... perhaps diamonds weren't a girl's best friend.  
  
But that was just the Absinthe talking.  
  
At least, she hoped it was.  
  
END CHAPTER THREE 


End file.
